


You look familiar, have we met before?

by Blackrider



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Kidfic, Les Amis - Freeform, M/M, Modern AU, Other, also i wrote e/R for the first time while they were arguing so I hope that makes sense, so be aware of that, the epilogue is basically smut, there's arguing about people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:13:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1589588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackrider/pseuds/Blackrider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Enjolras was 4, an eight year old Grantaire moved into his neighborhood and they became best friends.  Sadly this didn't last for long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You look familiar, have we met before?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Julia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julia/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to my very good friend, Julia! :) (her birthday is tomorrow, but I won't be able to upload this tomorrow, and she won't see this until tomorrow ;) )  
> I hope you liked what I made of your (very long and beautfully detailed) prompt ;) 
> 
> Please enjoy :)

„Oh – Look! It’s girly little Enjy, are you gonna cry again – like a _girl_?”  
Enjolras sniffed and bit his lip, trying not to cry. It didn’t work. Big tears rolled down his cheeks, and the boys surrounding him laughed loudly and meanly. They began poking him, screaming abuse about how he was dumb and a girl.

“What are you doing?” A shadow fell over Enjolras. He turned around, it was sunny today,  so a shadow was weird, out in the open as they were. A speaking shadow nonetheless.

 “What do you want?! Is Enjy your _girlfriend_ or what?” The boy who’d started sneered at the guy who was almost a head taller than the boy.

“No, he’s not.” Enjolras couldn’t see more than black curls and blue eyes against the sun, but he was thankful that the new boy was there. “Since he’s not a girl, he can’t be my girlfriend, see, you dumbo?” The new boy sounded like he was smiling when he said that.

“You are stupid! Just like your s- stupid girlfriend!”

“Just run away before I punch you.” The new boy’s fists were curled and he moved them up higher – and the mean boys ran away, still spitting insults, but there was insecurity in their voices now.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. You okay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m René Grantaire. You can call me Taire if you want to.”  Enjolras could finally turn around and really look at the – Taire. He was a one and a half heads taller than Enjolras himself and he had big smile on his face.

“I’m Enjolras.” Enjolras had had practiced long to be able to say his name without stuttering or stumbling over the word.

“Just Enj-orase?” Grantaire tried his best to say Enjolras correctly – but he failed miserably.

“Enjolras. And yes. My first name is stupid.” Enjolras had hated his first name since he’d found out what it meant.

“Would it be okay if I call you E? Only until I learn how to say your name!”  Grantaire fumbled to add, since he didn’t want to insult the little boy with his bright blue eyes and beautiful blond curls.

Enjolras smiled slightly. “That’s alright.” Enjolras tried to remember if he’d ever seen Taire before, but he couldn’t. “You are new here.”

Grantaire was surprised. But then he realized again how small this town was, and nodded. “Yeah, my mom wanted to move here.”

Enjolras nodded as well now. “It’s nice.”

Grantaire scrunched up his face in confusion. “Not really if you’re bullied by these idiots.”

“Well, _mostly_ nice!”

They looked at each other and started laughing. Hard. They laughed until they were wheezing, and their laughter faded out into breathy smiles.

“Would you like to run around town with me?”

“I’d love to but-“, Taire looked down at his wrist, where – which Enjolras hadn’t noticed before now- he had a watch. Grantaire peered at it. “It’s almost six pm. Don’t you have a curfew?”

“Oh – fudge!”

“How late are you?”

I have to be home by six – but I wanted to go to Courfeyrac. And on the way-“

“The mean ones? Should I bring you home? You can call Corrf- your friend from there.” Kids in this town sure had weird sounding names.

“Don’t you have a curfew?”

“Yes. But I’m older than you.”

“So what?!”

“So I’m allowed to stay out longer than you do. Now, lead?”

“Follow me.” Enjolras smiled brightly, his short anger already gone.

 

Since it was the summer holidays, Grantaire and Enjolras met quite often, and soon Grantaire was being teased about hanging out with someone half his age. But Grantaire didn’t actually care. He liked the boy that looked like every depiction of an angel (if he had ever imagined one).  
Grantaire had started taking taekwondo lessons a year before moving to the town in which he met Enjolras, and he was glad that he could continue his training (although his mother had to drive him for half an hour to get to the dojo).  It turned out that the kids weren’t bullying Enjolras just on that particular day, but had started when they had come to know him through kindergarden. And Grantaire was furious. He had told Enjolras that evening that he should just go to him if those idiots ever came after him again.

And Enjolras did. Grantaire became his, almost literal, knight in shining armor. They became best friends over the summer, and were both equally sad when school (and kindergarden) came around and they had to settle on only meeting afterwards (if Grantaire had finished with his homework, his parents were very strict about that kind of thing).  Grantaire drew for Enjolras when E was upset, and his sketches became better and better. Sometimes E requested something, but mostly it was just Grantaire doodling something funny to cheer his best friend up.

For the next two years, they were almost inseparable. They both got teased for it at first, but Grantaire’s classmates became accustomed to it and started to find it adorable, many compared it to Grantaire being like a big brother to Enjolras. In Enjolras kindergarden, everyone loved Taire, because he was taller and older and lovely.

Nobody really bullied Enjolras anymore, on one side because they knew that bullying Enjolras meant having _A Talk_ with Grantaire, and partly because they liked Enjolras.

One night, Taire was allowed to sleep over at Enjolras’ and when they lay in the darkness, E’s voice carried over to where Grantaire lay next to him. “Taire? You still awake?”

“Yes.”

“When we’re grown up,” E paused. He usually never did, so Grantaire turned his head to Enjolras and waited. “When we’re grown up would you, can we marry?”

Grantaire smiled. He loved the little boy, but he didn’t know. Taire couldn’t really picture himself with anyone else but Enjolras though. “We can definitely try. It’s not legal here yet, but when we’re all grown up it will be.”

“Good.”

“Sleep tight, E.”

“You, too, Taire.”

 

So of course, Enjolras and Grantaire were absolutely devastated when Grantaire’s father told him they would have to move very far away. As in, to the other side of the world.  Grantaire screamed and shouted and wailed and sobbed and then cried silently because he couldn’t stop.

Enjolras cried, when Taire told him, the older boy’s own eyes puffy and red, his voice hoarse. He bit his lip to stop, sniffed loudly and rubbed over his face with his sleeve. “We’re gonna call each other, okay? We’ll talk as often as we can- okay? Promise me!”

“Yes, we can do that. Maybe write to me when you learn how.” Grantaire offered. “E, we’ll not forget each other so easily.” He’d long learned how to pronounce Enjolras, but he liked using E, because nobody else did.

They hugged tightly, ended up cuddling more than hugging, they cried during it, but silently, they knew though, because their bodies shook against each other as they sobbed quietly.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t wanna leave either. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t want to be fine without you!”

“You have Courfeyrac. And I’ll call as often as I can.”

“This is so stupid.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You’ll call.”

“I’ll call.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They stared at each other for a while, and Taire’s father called for him from the front seat of their car.

“Goodbye, E.”

“Goodbye, R.”

They hugged, both trying not to cry, and failing.

Grantaire got into the car, and cranked the window down. He stared at Enjolras as long as he could, and Enjolras didn’t move for another ten minutes after the car had left. He sat on the curb and cried.  Of course they’d talk over the phone, but Enjolras knew that it would be different. He lost his best friend.

Inside the car, Grantaire wasn’t any better. He cried like a baby, and couldn’t bring himself to stop. He’d lost his one and only real friend, and it hurt as if a part of his body had been removed. He was exhausted and red eyed when they queued for security check at the airport. Several people gave him weird looks, but he ignored them all. His parents looked at him with concern, but they understood partly, and would’ve liked to help, but they knew they couldn’t really comfort their son at the moment, so they let him be.

Grantaire would have to learn French now. Why couldn’t he have stayed in the states, with E? Why did he have to learn a stupid new language, in a stupid new country, with no friends and especially no Enjolras to cheer him up.

 

They did try to call each other, but the phone bills went up high, and there was the time zone difference they figured out only after Grantaire had called once and it had ended up being 3 am for Enjolras. (Neither of their parents had been amused.)

The calls became fewer and farther in between, and although they had tried letters, it hadn’t stuck. Grantaire was quite busy, because as it turned out, French school was a lot more work than American school, and he had to go to extra lessons for learning the language.

A year later, they had given up, gone on with their lives. The last thing Grantaire had heard about Enjolras was that there was a new boy, Combetera or something, and that Enjolras, Courfeyrac and the new guy hung out a lot now. Grantaire wasn’t sure if he should feel jealous to be replaced, but to be honest, he had found some new friends as well. There was Eponine, who had been forcefully appointed as his guide on the first day of school, and he’d told her in very bad French that he didn’t need a guide and that he’d be fine. And, as he later found out, she didn’t want to be his guide either, but she liked his attitude, so she took him around and showed him the streets one didn’t necessarily find out about if one came to Paris as a guest. Grantaire had from then on often gone around Paris, even without Eponine, to find new Restaurants, new shops in the corner or wall of a building, and just to the places where there weren’t hundreds of tourists mingling about. He also drew a lot of alleyways, the beautiful ones and the ugly, dirty ones.

He didn’t tell Eponine about the drawing. Grantaire had grasped that drawing wasn’t a bad thing, especially not in Paris, but it wasn’t something he could earn money with, he was not Leonardo da Vinci, about to draw a modernized version of the Mona Lisa. He stopped taking lessons in taekwondo.

So he drew and forgot Enjolras more and more, until Enjolras and the two years were distant memories in his mind and he started studying Art at university in spite of his father’s expressed wishes for him to study something concerning math or any other science. Art won’t feed you, he often said. They had a harsh fall out over this subject. And about Grantaire’s smoking, and drinking.

Grantaire moved out, kissing his mother goodbye and telling his father that he needed to have his own roof over his head. And his father nodded. He wasn’t fine with Grantaire moving against his wishes, but he could see that his son needed to, so he let him go. He offered to pay Grantaire’s rent, but Grantaire didn’t want that. He’d gotten a little pocket money from his parents before moving out, and his father insisted on paying him his pocket money, and that Grantaire could accept.  

The art student started to wait tables whenever he wasn’t in class, and every free minute was either spent drawing or sneaking into other courses, like the philosophy ones, mostly the ones on greek mythology (he’d gone there as a joke, but the professor was really interesting, and often compared the old gods to modern stories, and it was fun), there was the odd political studies lesson he attended, if only to rant about how shitty this world in which they were living.

Grantaire had days where he needed quiet and silence and nothing but a dark room and days where he hated his paintings and almost tore them all to shreds. He knew he was depressed, he had access to internet and wasn’t dumb. He went to the doctors once, and the people there were nice, however, the anti-depressants didn’t work on him. Probably had something to do with the amount of alcohol he drunk. But Grantaire had almost stopped caring. He barely managed to pass the exams, but he passed. His work became darker and it was almost as if the colors stopped.

He’d asked Eponine to move in with him, just as friends, they had never been anything else. But Eponine had declined. She had her own problems, and moving in with him would be one of the dumber choices. Grantaire had been hurt by her words, but he understood.  It had been a long shot, anyway.

Grantaire often couldn’t pay the rent. However, he was never thrown out, he always paid later on. Ate less that month and one didn’t really need a heater when one had several blankets, right? He scraped by.

His 6th semester had just started when he walked around the streets of Paris one night when he went by a relatively new gym. It said boxing gym, also teaching taekwondo and karate. It was still open, although it was in the middle of the night, so Grantaire gave into his curiosity and went inside.  “Hello? Anybody home?” Grantaire called out. And apparently there was. The rhythmic sound of someone hitting a speed ball stopped short. An answering shout was heard, with footsteps approaching.

“Hello!” A guy even taller and broader than Grantaire stood before him, grinning broadly. “I didn’t know anyone else was awake at this time. What do you do then?”

“Nothing, I just haven’t seen the gym before now and-“

“My name’s Bahorel,” the guy- Bahorel, interrupted him and stuck out his hand. “Want to spar?”

“I- Grantaire. And I haven’t done anything for about ten years – so.”

“What did you do?”

“Taekwondo.”

“Sweet. Come on.”

“But-“

“I’ll go easy on you,” Bahorel winked and lead the way to a corner where martial art mats where spread on the ground.

“Do you own this gym?”

“Nah, but I’m like, their favourite, so I got a key.”

Grantaire stared at him for a few moments. “You got a key. Because you’re their favourite.” He repeated, dumbly.

Bahorel laughed, apparently accustomed to that reaction. “It’s fine, really. I’m very trustworthy.”

“Sure.”

“Taekwondo, right? Show me what you got.”

Grantaire grunted, but he did feel like letting his energy out a little. And Bahorel looked like he could take it.

And how Bahorel could. Grantaire had been quite good at taekwondo, but he was rusty and Bahorel was simply better. Grantaire had liked their sparring.

“Want a beer?”

“You just became my new favourite person.”

“See?”

Grantaire stopped for a moment, mulling his words over and then he broke out into a laugh. Bahorel joined in.

 

The sparring became more regular; Bahorel showed Grantaire a bit of boxing and karate as well and Grantaire liked these nights and sometimes evenings a lot. He always looked forward to them. They talked about this and that while they were at it, or when they relaxed over a beer. Turns out Bahorel was studying law, but had long ago decided never ever to become a lawyer. Bahorel was loud and clever and funny, though in an unfunny way. He was passionate and liked to get into fights, searching out bars –to which he sometimes took Grantaire as well – and used excuses such as idiots not taking a ‘No’ from another person.

Bahorel slipped a group he had become a part of into their conversation now and then, invited Grantaire to a rally for equality, and some other things Grantaire didn’t care about. So he never went. When Bahorel tried to convince him, Grantaire shot down his arguments one by one. However, it didn’t seem to have the desired effect. Instead of Bahorel losing interest in trying to win Grantaire over, he became more adamant in making Grantaire come to just one meeting. Just to look. Just to come watch them talk about stuff.

After a month, well, after Bahorel offered to buy his drinks for the whole evening, Grantaire shrugged and went with him.

The thing that Grantaire felt first and foremost thorough the whole evening was anger. And disbelief. And incredulity that a group of students could really be that naïve and stupid.  Because this group of kids, the Les Amis de l’ABC, as they called themselves, thought they could change the world by doing peaceful protests and talking. So much talking. They were all either younger than twenty and had just started with university, or were twenty and yet hopeful.

Grantaire felt too old. He felt that with his 26 years, he had outgrown the naïve dreams and hopes and everything.

Then the leader spoke. Or at least the guy everyone looked with sparkles in their eyes. He spoke with passion and talked with fervor and his eyes were…ablaze, for a lack of a better word. And Grantaire…well he couldn’t not say something. So he (rather rudely, as he was informed later by an amused Bahorel) interrupted the guy in the ratty red hoodie and the blue eyes and the golden locks that somehow seemed familiar but probably weren’t.

Instead of using (very valid) arguments like ‘Why would anyone listen to you’ because Grantaire knew that someday, everyone would listen to this one man, maybe even to this one group of students, he asked. “Do you believe that people are fundamentally good?”

Enjolras had searched the room, looking for the one who’d interrupted him, and looked at the dark skinned guy with a scruff and unruly black curls that were hiding very calm blue eyes. He regarded the man he didn’t know and thought about the question. “I do not believe that people are either fundamentally; good or bad,” the gathered people nodded and or murmured their agreement. “I think that the choices they make lead them to be good or bad people, and sometimes they’re good and bad people at the same time.” The leader spoke slowly, deliberately, as if he was thinking carefully about how he chose his words.

Grantaire tilted his head. The guy wasn’t dumb, he was clever, thought well on his feet, and had some very interesting thoughts. “I see, but some people don’t get to make the choice of becoming a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ person,” he paused, since the group seemed to be in splits about his comment, and then he continued, “you see, not everyone’s as privileged as most of you are.”

There were a few people who jumped up and shouted abuse at him, but he didn’t care. Instead, he watched how the guy in the hoodie reacted. There was fury in his face, but Grantaire could see how he calmed himself down, probably counted to ten in his head – the thought made him smirk. That had the effect of the red hoodie guy to, well, loose his calm. A bit. 

“Of course we’re mostly privileged people! But at least we try to make things better, especially for those who can’t choose to be either good or bad or both or neither!”

Grantaire saw that the guy wanted to go on, but he wanted to interrupt, so he did. “Why speak for someone you aren’t?”

A new wave of fury spread around the room, and the guy in the hoodie clenched his fists. “Because they can’t?”

“Can’t or don’t want to?” Grantaire was enjoying himself. It had been a while since he’d argued – actually verbally sparred with someone. And he hadn’t realized he had missed it as much as he did.

Sadly, another guy, Hispanic in his family somewhere, if Grantaire had to judge from his outer appearance, stepped in, laying a hand on the hoodied shoulder, which obviously had a calming effect on the guy as he unclenched his fists and while his teeth remained gritted, he relaxed ever so slightly. Hispanic guy spoke up. “We have just started a semester ago to ask around for people from less privileged backgrounds to speak in meetings like these, tell us what it’s like-“

“I bet they liked that really well,” Grantaire snorted. “Nice to be treated like a special snowflake, _invited_ to explain shit to white kids.”

“It isn’t like that!” Hoodie guy brushed off the hand. “We want to understand, so we can help, isn’t that what you were saying?!”

“No, I pointed out how curious it was to see a white kid talk about problems that have most likely never even touched you with a ten feet long pole.”

The hoodie guy was furious, and became more so by the second. “I’ve researched-“

“Well done, kiddo.”

“I’ve tried asking-“

“Again with the making people into examples for a whole class!”

“I’m – We’re all trying-“

“Not good enough.”

“And who are you to judge that?!”

“Ah, nobody, really, just a visitor.” Grantaire smiled then, and stood up. As much as he had enjoyed this, he felt like going out. “I’ll be leaving then. Bahorel.” He nodded at his friend, who grimaced and Grantaire could see the silent judgment (though paired with subtle amusement) in his eyes. He gave a little wave to the rest of the room. “I’d say sorry, but I’m not, so. Bye,” he grinned and left.

The guy in the hoodie stared after him. “What did just happen?”

“I think you got burned.” Behind him, a guy laughed. Another one, farther back, called. “Do you want some ice for that?” Which was accompanied by snorting laughter from a guy sitting to his right and a giggling sound from a girl to his left.

“Shut up, Courf.” He said to the first one.

“No, you got played! I haven’t seen you played like that since – well. Never, really.”

“Bahorel – you brought him – what the fuck?” One of the other attendants asked.

Bahorel smiled crookedly. “That was Grantaire. I told you about him, Bossuet, Joly?”

“Oh – the one you spar with in the dead of night, when every sane person should be asleep?” Joly asked pointedly, giving him a _look_.

“Yeah, that one. Anyway. He’s a friend of mine, we talk about the stuff from the meetings sometimes, and he’s basically always like this.” Bahorel shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, Enjolras.”

“No, please, don’t apologize. I was just… not prepared for that.” Enjolras shook his head. “Sorry, do you want to continue the meeting?”

The others looked at each other uncertainly, and one with longish hair spoke up. “Is there anything left you want to talk about specifically today?”

Enjolras thought through the mental list of things he had wanted to talk about, looked at Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “We don’t have anything, anyone else?”

Nobody spoke up, and Enjolras declared the official part to be over. His friends would talk in smaller groups now, probably about that… interruption. Enjolras hated it when people looked at things with deliberate cynicism, when people didn’t believe in anything. He always had a hard time believing anyone that they were without belief. He talked to Combeferre, but Combeferre left to go talk to some of the others, and Bahorel had left rather soon, maybe to catch up to his idiot friend.

Enjolras chided himself. Bahorel’s friend may have had an opinion differing from his own, but he was in no way stupid, because stupid people didn’t out-argue him. Maybe he would just have to find new and better ways or arguments to convince people like Grantaire. Because if he couldn’t even convince fellow students (and he was guessing that Grantaire was one) how would he be able to convince France, or even just Paris?

 

Meanwhile, Grantaire hadn’t completely left the Musain, which was surprisingly close to his excuse for an apartment, where the meetings were held. Instead he had sat down at the bar and talked to the barmaid, about this and that, and had ordered a few beers. After all, his drinks were paid for this evening. Bahorel came out of the back room about fifteen minutes after Grantaire himself had left and sat down beside him with a heavy sigh. “You’re incorrigible, you old cynic.”

“And yet, you’re here instead of in there,” Grantaire noticed, smirking into his glass.

“And yet. You really riled Enjolras up.”

“Guy in the hoodie?” The name sounded familiar. Grantaire shrugged mentally, he lived in France, and weird names were almost a must.

“Yeah. The guy who tried to calm him down was Combeferre.”

“Do all of you have these weird names?”

Grantaire and Bahorel turned around when laughter answered Grantaire’s question.

“Don’t know, Jean Prouvaire – Jehan for short, weird enough for you?”

“Definitely.”

Grantaire shook hands with the guy – girl? – with long blond-ish brown hair, wearing a skirt and jacket. “Sorry for asking, but what are your preferred pronouns?”

Jehan stared at Grantaire for a few moments, before his whole face transformed from friendly-reserved to a fully grown smile that reached his eyes and made them glow. “They, their, them is always good, but sometimes I feel more male or female – I’ll let you know if you give me your phone number.”

Grantaire nodded, making a mental note to remind him. Then he grimaced. “Sorry, don’t have a phone.”

“You don- what? How?”  Jehan seemed bewildered.

Grantaire smiled amusedly and shrugged. “Don’t really have the money after the last one went … to places no phone has ever come back from.”

“Toilet?” Jehan nodded knowingly.

“Nah, but close. Shower.”

“Must’ve been a boring one.”

“Something like that.” Grantaire grinned. “So Jean Prouvaire short Jehan what can I do for you.”

“Nothing – just wanted to see.”

“What, am I your circus freak now?” That had come out more biting than was intended, and Grantaire was almost sorry, but couldn’t really bring himself to apologize.

“No!” Jehan almost shouted. “Of course not. But you were interesting. No one else ever really argues with Enjolras. We all… well.”

“You all more or less agree with what he’s saying, yeah, I got that much.” Grantaire shrugged. “You all seem so… naïve. As if you didn’t really know the real life.”

Jehan looked down. “That’s probably the case with many of us. We do want to help, but we don’t really know how, to be honest. There are few who are ‘less privileged’ than the rest of us. And many people we asked felt insulted, and we didn’t really get why.”

At least this one was being honest. “How did you ask them?”

“Well, it was mostly Enjolras and Combeferre going around. They were asking if we wanted to try and help spread awareness on numeral problems with society as it as, including gender and sexuality problems, as well as the ‘disappearing middle class’. And when they went to some who they knew lived under … not so good circumstance, they asked them to join too, so they could maybe get to the problem.”

Grantaire shook his head in disbelief. “How often did he get punched in the face for that one?”

Jehan furrowed their brows. “Don’t know. Nice meeting you, Grantaire – please come back next week?” They smiled at Grantaire.

“Why would you want me to _come back_?” Grantaire asked, bewilderment written all over his face. “I’m pretty sure I insulted your group of social justice warriors a lot – why would you want me to insult you more?”

Jehan smiled. “I just think you’d like it, maybe.”

Grantaire snorted. “We’ll see.”

“Bye.”

He waved after them.  “So…that was… interesting?” He looked over at Bahorel, who had been quiet during the encounter.

“They like you. Why did you ask for their pronouns?”

“Didn’t know, too bored to assume.”

Bahorel looked at him with a slightly disbelieving expression. He then shook his head and stood. “Wait here a moment, I gotta bring some people for you to meet.” He took off with a grin on his lips and a mischievous expression on his face.

He came back about five minutes later with three people in tow. “These are Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta, respectively, although you sometimes can’t quite tell where one ends and the other two begin,” Bahorel delivered with a perfect eye waggle and an obvious wink.

Grantaire chuckled. “Nice to meet you, I’m Grantaire.”

“We know. Nice burn, by the way.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “I hope he got some ice.”

There was only dead silence for a few seconds before everyone began laughing. They started talking about other things, what Grantaire studied, how they were interested in seeing his paintings and Grantaire trying to not sound like a complete arse while refusing. Apparently Joly was a med student, Musichetta usually worked at the Musain and Bossuet had studied law, but had given his seat up to save some kid from getting kicked out of the course. Apparently the professor was very strict on attendance, and this freshman had been running late, Bossuet hadn’t known him, and when his name had been called, Bossuet had answered. Now of course the professor knew him, since Bossuet had actually taken the course before, and then when Bossuet’s name was called, he couldn’t answer again.

“At least now I don’t have to study law!” Bossuet exclaimed with a laugh and through and arm around both Joly and Musichetta, he tried, at least. He punched Musichetta’s arm and wiped Joly’s glasses from his nose.  “I’m so sorry, god.” Musichetta und Joly both automatically smiled and told Bossuet it was no problem at all, it was all fine.

“So I guess this happens more often?”

“Yes, I’m… a bit clumsy.”

“He has the worst luck ever.”

“Yep.”

“Must suck.”

“Yep.”

“Shit,” Grantaire’s watch was telling him it was past 2 am. “I have a shift tomorrow.  Fuck. Today. I have like, two hours of sleep left.” He groaned.

“Goodnight?” Bahorel offered, smiling slightly.

“Yeah, nice to meet all of you, really. If I had a phone, I’d give you my number.”

Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta just smiled and told him to come back next week.

 

And he did come back next week. With a sketch pad. Because if he remembered correctly, he had just the right pencil aching for him to draw his new…acquaintances, friends, whatever they were. And maybe he did want to draw Enjolras in all his furious glory, because as ridiculous as that boy had acted, he had looked like a god when half-shouting. Grantaire doodled, more or less. He had taken the table in the farthest corner, so that he could overlooks the whole room. They were more or less twenty people, with the occasional curious guy or girl coming in to listen for a few minutes before either taking a seat or going away again. A few people that had been there the last time looked at him, surprised to see him again after last weeks fallout.

He remained quiet thorough that meeting, only sketching – mostly Enjolras when he spoke about something he was passionate about (which encompassed all the things he spoke about). But Grantaire also drew the others, Bahorel with his big grin, Joly with his cane, leaning on it while standing between Musichetta and Bossuet. He drew Jehan and imagined them on a flower field, but if felt wrong, so he changed the scenery into a room in an old castle, full of spider webs and skeletons.

When the meeting ended, he stayed, but closed his sketchbook. Joly and Bossuet came over, saying hello and asking if they could see what he’d been so busy with that he hadn’t interrupted Enjolras at all. Grantaire smiled, but shook his head. “It’s just doodles, nothing finished, I’m not all that good anyways.”

Another guy came to talk to him, gestured to his sketchbook and asked if he was an artist. “Very bad one. Although I suppose I am an art student. Supposedly,” he added with a wry grin.

Feuilly, the guy was called, apparently had no other family than the Les Amis, and had taught himself quite a lot; from languages over art over paying attention to not only his own, but also to other people’s problems. He was very involved with the incidents in the Ukraine at the moment, and talked about how he wished he could help.

Grantaire took a liking to him, as he did to most of the Les Amis, surprisingly. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen Enjolras somewhere before, but he shook it off. They went to the same university after all.

And then they went home at the same time – and Enjolras went into the same direction as Grantaire did. And then he went into the house Grantaire lived in. He followed him, wanted to make a short stop to get a jacket.

“Why’re you following me?!” Enjolras had noticed. He stood in front of a door – probably his apartment – and faced Grantaire, eyes ablaze.

“I live here,” Grantaire shrugged. He gestured to the door at the end of the corridor. “Down there. When did you move in here?”

Enjolras looked taken aback. “Half a year ago, shortly before the semester started – what- is that why you looked so familiar?”

Grantaire frowned. “Could be. But I don’t really keep your hours.”

They stood in silence. “Well – I guess I’ll see you ‘round, then. Bye, E.” Grantaire turned around and was walking away, but Enjolras stood frozen.

“What did you just call me?” His voice barely rose above whispering, and Grantaire stopped in his tracks.

“E? I hope that was okay I sometimes don’t really- why are you looking at me like that?”

A moment went by. “It’s nothing. Forget it, see you at the next meeting.” With that, Enjolras escaped into his flat.

Grantaire waited for a moment, then shrugged and went to look at his sketchpad and not draw Enjolras in all his furious glory. Instead, he drank until he called Eponine to drink one with him. And she came. When he opened the door for her, he saw Enjolras standing in the hallway, letting in Combeferre. They nodded at each other, and Eponine looked over her shoulder to see who Grantaire was nodding to.

“He’s hot,” she said as the door was closed, “how do you know him?”

“Did I tell you about the social justice warriors that escaped the internet? He’s their leader,” he said, grinning.

“I should have recognized his ‘golden curls and blazing blue eyes’, huh?” Eponine took his vodka bottle, and drank.

“Oh, fuck you.”

They laughed and drank and Grantaire showed his sketches, later in the night, and told her about the revolutionaries.

“That’s Marius!”

“Wassat?”

“Marius – he- we met in one of our lectures? He told me about how he only was in that law course because some guy called his name in attendance instead of his own. And Marius is the one I told you about- the awkward one with the limbs and the face.”

“Ahh, of course- the guy with the limbs and the face, how could I forget,” he exclaimed jovially and with a shit eating grin. He got shoved for it. They laughed. “He’s at the meetings. But he’s quiet. I once heard him try to argue about Bush not being that bad of a president.”

Eponine snorted. “Poor guy. I bet he was torn into pieces.”

“Oh he was. You should’ve seen how he was shot down.” Grantaire smiled. “It’s quite fun, actually, you wanna come?”

They were lying on Grantaire’s bed, huddled close together for warmth under the blanket.

Eponine shrugged. “Visiting can’t be that bad, right?”

Eponine was from ‘less privileged’ circumstances. And she was neither good nor bad. She had grown up with parents who had a small bed and breakfast slash bar. They weren’t the … most honest people you could book a room with. Eponine had stolen some things in her youth, either because she was dared to or because she wanted it but didn’t have money.

She was studying to become a social worker now. Eponine had two younger siblings, Azelma and Gavroche, and she had basically raised them and they had moved in with her as soon as they could get out of their first home, away from their parents. While Gavroche seemed to become a very intelligent and aware young man, earning his money by working and spending every penny he didn’t need to survive himself on the houseless people in Paris. He often bought himself a sandwich, saw someone sitting on the street and gave them his food instead. Meanwhile Azelma wasn’t- she was smart and learned fast, but she always seemed so bored, she worked, too, but it was clear she didn’t want to stay with Eponine, and she was a lot like her older sister in the aspect that she stole some things here and there. However, Eponine couldn’t judge. She could try to lead Azelma away from that, but Azelma always saw through her plans and became angry because she felt like a study subject to Eponine.

 

After Eponine had attended a few meetings, she’d befriended Courfeyrac and Musichetta, talked to Feuilly about her work and even Enjolras seemed impressed. Jehan had asked if she was his girlfriend, to which Grantaire had laughed and shaken his head. Any guy would be lucky to have her, but he wasn’t interested in her like that. Jehan had nodded and smiled then.

Grantaire found himself talking to Enjolras one evening again, they often argued, and Grantaire loved it. Because it seemed like no one else could shake Enjolras like he did, or at least no one did. They had taken off on a tangent and were now discussing jumping in front of someone they loved to take a bullet.

“But what would the one you love get from losing you, if you took a lethal bullet for them?!” Enjolras raked his fingers through his curls, frustrated.

“Their life? Because I would rather them to be alive then me being still alive and them dead.” Grantaire looked at Enjolras with self-assured calm. “Because if I loved someone, I would-“

“What if they loved you- what if, listen to me, what if they loved you so much that they didn’t want to live without you? Isn’t it selfish to put yourself in danger- just to not see them die? They see you die, probably in their arms – and, what? You die the martyr and they have to deal with the consequences?”

The room had fallen completely silent. Everyone listened, attention on the cynic and their leader.

Grantaire sighed. “Yes. It’s completely selfish. But that’s how people are. It’s also self _less_. Because one would throw his life away for the person they loved. And wouldn’t the person who was saved have to live on?”

“So the person whose life is saved is stuck with unwanted responsibility and burden to carry a dead person’s wishes and hopes and dreams? Isn’t your own burden heavy enough?”

For once, Grantaire stayed silent. Slowly, the others started talking again, picking up abandoned conversations, sneaking a look or two at Enjolras and Grantaire.

“You alright?”

Grantaire looked up in surprise. Enjolras was taking a seat at his empty table. “I’m good.”

“Okay. Great.”

They sat in silence for a while. Grantaire’s fingers itched for a pencil and his sketchbook. But he hadn’t taken them with him today. He doodled on the napkin; eyes, mostly, sometimes a mouth.

“Why are you only studying art? Why not philosophy or politics?”

“Why should I? I’m not like you- I don’t believe the world can be changed by shouting at it.” Grantaire looked up.

“We can try.”

“Yes, you can.” Grantaire noticed what words he’d used, and smiled at himself, looking down at the table.

Enjolras made a frustrated noise. “It’s just – you’re- it’s like you’re wasting potential! And you’re wasting away by doing art and nothing else – it’s so- You could be so much more.”

Grantaire didn’t look up. His hand froze for a second; flashbacks from conversations with his father filtering through. Then he continued doodling. “I’m doing what I love, and I’m not going to let myself be judged by you. Banksy isn’t such a waste of a clever mind on an artist either. Don’t insult my profession, Enjolras, or I _will_ get angry.” He looked up then, because he wanted to see if Enjolras understood. He had spoken calmly, gently even.

Grantaire’s eyes looked deadly, furious. Enjolras swallowed nervously. E had never seen Grantaire serious. He always seemed amused by everything. Enjolras looked away. He blushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t-“

“Yes, you did.” Grantaire was still calmly doodling, when Enjolras shifted, leaned forward, and took a deep breath.

“I really am sorry.”

“Okay.”

“May I- Can I ask you something?”

Grantaire looked up, surprised, and curious. “No law against asking questions.” He stopped doodling.

“Did you ever live in the US? I mean, I’m sorry if this sounds weird – but I had this friend when I was in kindergarden and he was also called Grantaire and-“

“Yes. E?” They stared at each other and then they laughed. Their arguments stripped away, and they were back to being 6 and 10 years old, laughing and talking.

The others in the room saw them laugh together and thought hell had frozen over. The two had only been known to argue and sometimes shout and sometimes driving the other one (mostly Grantaire) to leave.

“You stopped calling.”

“And you stopped writing – I think we’re both equally to blame.”

They smiled at each other fondly. Then a thought struck Grantaire. Well, two thoughts.

“Are Courfeyrac and Combeferre-?”

“Yeah, they’re the same ones.”

“What are you doing in Paris, of all places?”

“Revolution seemed like a common thing here, so-“

Enjolras was clearly joking, and Grantaire laughed loudly, head thrown back.

“How did we not notice this before now?”

“What were the chances?”

“Combeferre, Courfeyrac!” Enjolras waved his best friends over.  “May I re-introduce you to René Grantaire – Courfeyrac, you should remember him at least a little, he was-“

“Your knight in shining armor! I remember.” Courfeyrac grinned and hugged him. “Thanks for keeping that one whole when his little blond head could’ve been kicked in.”

“You’re _the_ Grantaire?” Combeferre regarded him with an assessing gaze.

“I can’t say anything about being ‘the’ Grantaire, but I can attest to being E’s childhood friend. You expected something different, huh?”

“A little,” Combeferre smiled and they shook hands. “How did you two meet again?”

“We lived in the same neighborhood.”

“Enjolras had been on his way to Courf’s, if I remember correctly. And some kids were insulting him.”

“You were being bullied?” Combeferre seemed surprised. Of course, he had only known Enjolras since Elementary, when he was already well liked. 

“Yeah. Why did you help me? I mean, you could’ve just gone your way, right?” 

Grantaire furrowed his brows. “I never liked bullies.”

The triumvirate stopped still and all three seemed surprised.

“I wasn’t always a cynical bastard, you know?” Grantaire said, amused. They had the decency to look a bit ashamed.

And then the other Amis joined in. “Wait- you were childhood friends?”The rest of the night was spend with telling about how Enjolras and Grantaire had met, how they had only known each other for two years and then lost contact.

It was late when Enjolras and Grantaire went to their homes. When they stood in their corridor, they stopped. Uncertain. “Do you remember-“

“Probably,” Grantaire quipped.

“Shush. Do you remember that we promised to marry each other? When we were grown up?”  Enjolras blushed.

“Are you proposing?” Grantaire grinned, but his mind was on fire.

“No!” Enjolras blushed deeper.

“Well if I’m that bad a catch,” he said with a self-depreciating grin on his face.

“That’s not- aren’t you and Eponine a- a _thing_?” Enjolras scrunched his face in confusion.

“Um. No? Eponine and I are only friends. Best friend, but. What about you and Combeferre? Wouldn’t he be against you marrying me?”

“What? No! He’s one of my best friends.”

They stared at each other for a few moments. “So how about coffee then? My treat.”

Enjolras shifted. “Sure. We’ll argue a lot though. And it will probably be terrible.”

“Probably” Grantaire smiled. “So, when are you free?”


	2. Epilogue

They’d been dating for a while (still arguing, but with a fond undertone in their voices now), when Enjolras saw Grantaire’s paintings.

Not just of Enjolras himself, but also of the les Amis, of their little room in the Musain, at one of their meetings, where Grantaire had captured him speaking, but also everyone else listening, staring at the middle of the room where Enjolras held his speeches. All of Grantaire’s paintings were breathtaking. Even a layman such as Enjolras was able to notice that. Grantaire stood, oddly quiet, next to him, waiting. Enjolras wasn’t sure he could make words come out of his mouth that would equal the paintings beauty. He kissed Grantaire instead. Enjolras took Grantaire’s head between his hands and kissed him longingly, trying to convey how he felt about the paintings.  His artist kissed Enjolras back, pulled him closer. He led Grantaire to his bed, crawling over him and began undressing him, while kissing every inch of skin he could reach.  Grantaire writhed and gasped underneath him, sunk his hands into Enjolras’ curls and let him do whatever he wanted with him. “Enjolras-“

He hummed around Grantaire’s dick in his mouth, looking up. “Fuck- You – Do you have any idea- uhh- how you look right now?” Enjolras grinned and sucked instead of answering. He could see Grantaire – and that was a pleasant sight, to say the least. He was rewarded with a groan. Enjolras decided that he like that sound and would like to hear it again. Working a finger into Grantaire after getting lube, he continued to suck and finger Grantaire until he begged Enjolras to fuck him, or let him cum at least. Grantaire whimpered, left feeling empty when Enjolras fingers were pulled out, but he could hear Enjolras lubing up, and opened his eyes to look at Enjolras as he thrust into him. Grantaire made a low, guttural sound, and Enjolras closed his eyes, expression pure bliss when he was full enveloped by Grantaire’s warmth.

Grantaire grasped Enjolras hand and squeezed. They looked at each other as Enjolras began to move. All that was left of Grantaire’s slight discomfort was gone, replaced by pleasure. They found their rhythm, and rocked against each other, panting, groaning. Then Enjolras put his hand around Grantaire’s penis and matched his movements to their pace. Grantaire had to close his eyes to not cum at the sight and Enjolras spoke up. “You can cum if you want to- I’m not- gonna last- much longer,” he said. So Grantaire did. His muscles clenched around Enjolras, and he followed after a few shallow thrusts with a sigh.

Enjolras took care of cleaning them both up after a few minutes of languid kissing and breathing. “I love you,” Grantaire said, with calm certainty, and Enjolras smiled.

“I love you, too.” He kissed Grantaire again.

“Guess we’re gonna end up getting married after all.” Grantaire grinned, and had meant it slightly sarcastic, but if Enjolras had learnt anything by being with Grantaire then it was that the artist was a lot more honest and a lot more caring than he liked to admit.

“I was a very intelligent kid, I’ll have you know. I knew you’d be with me, Taire.”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras, and nodded. “Yes. I agreed all those years ago. And I haven’t changed my mind since then, E.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras first name is Napoleon, that's why he doesn't like it. (he's considered changing it a few time, but he always thinks that his money could be spend better than to suit his vanity)  
> The mean boys at the beginning of Chapter 1 were (in my mind) Patron Minette.


End file.
